Friday, June 30, 2006

Children and animals: we don't see much of either these days. Not that we see many of the latter in San Francisco; in fact, we boast the lowest percentage of whippersnappers in the entire country. But that's the thing about living in bars: your life is twenty-somethings, Pabst, ringing ears, and the ocassional moron who really, really wants you to understand how black metal he is. You forget that children exist anywhere besides gas stations, obviously their natural habitat. Kids love petrol. It's a proven fact.

Yesterday, though, we saw a few. In Baltimore (The City That Reads, they say), we had a few hours to do the tourist thing, eat food that wasn't battered or covered in cook's hair, and just casually cruise the harbor. In other words, we returned to the normal world, where there are old people, dogs, children, and sunlight not filtered through the windshield of the Whaleship Essex. Glorious stuff, the outside world. Almost makes you want to pull a Thoreau before you remember he was a tool and a fraud and a member of the monied leisure class who just went camping for a few months and got famous. Johnny Appleseed: such a better outdoorsman idol. He wore a gunnysack, you know. And he was basically just a frontier bartender, since all those apples were just for cider in the first place. Now, that's a higher calling. I think I'll wear a gunnysack for tonight's show. You have to make a fashion statement in New York, right? Tonight: a gunnysack, red galloshes, powdered, British judge wig. Be there.

Anyway, I digress. As usual. Let's talk about Baltimore. After an early soundcheck (so as not to interrupt Jello Biafra's ramblings next door), doing the tourist thing, we played a show that's certainly a tour highlight thus far. There were youngsters there too and by God, they rocked out. An enthusiastic three or four dozen is far superior to hundreds of arm-crossed, grimace-sporting scowlers who aren't quite sure if you're cool enough to enjoy. It was one of those feel-good evenings where I end up limping and grinning like Kirk Gibson in '88 and they end up throwing everyone out because nobody's left by the time last call's expired. Thanks Baltimore. That was fun.

I'm navigating the Whaleship today, so I'm going to split rather abruptly. Until soon.

Wednesday, June 28, 2006

If I had to do a seven deadly sins checklist for this tour, I would've been doing fine. I would've been up in heaven playing canasta with Jesus, flirting with Mother Theresa, and high-fiving God like the ending of Tango & Cash. At least, I would've been fine until North Carolina. We stayed at Dave's pappy's house in Raleigh, where I spent two days being the poster boy for sloth and gluttony and the lesser known eight cardinal vice: unadulterated uselessness. But we needed it. We needed vegitables that hadn't spent three years in a dented can, a bed free of spine-gouging springs, and thirty hours free of the Whaleship Essex. It was glorious. And free. Which are a fantastic couple. Like raspberries and dark chocolate. Who, really, can say anything against hedonism? And if this means I'l be spending eternity listening to 98 Degrees with Lizzy Borden, well, that's just the way the cookie crumbles. At least it was a delicious cookie.

We fled this leisurely paradise this morning in order to play in Norfolk, Virginia, which we can call ol' Virginny, if only to quote the Band for the second time in as many weeks. We played at a record store slash venue slash cafe slash internet hub called Relativity Records for a nice handful of shoppers who, when we started did in fact quit browsing, bob around and, dare I say, dance. I like folks who dance, regardless of whether they should be. Like, for instance, I really should never try. I have three moves: the matador stomp, the clap-thing, and...ok. Perhaps I have two. The point (if indeed there is one): rug cutting is good. Not a controversial statement, but, come on, I spent two days eating chicken, reading Michael Malone, and playing pool. You gotta allow for a tangent or five.

And you know what? It was a great show. Sure, my bass made that crackly, death rattle sound that makes me want to euthanize it, but CR from the Talk gifted me his, which I didn't slam the tamborine on (to his pleasure I'm sure) or drop or abuse in any real way. We're trying to get to Baltimore early to remedy that annoyance and I pray we can. I mean, there are only three more shows. It must be cosmic punishment for deeds enumerated in paragraph one. God's playing dirty. No more tithes for you, sassafras.

Tomorrow: Maryland. Then the big city. I guess, in reality: The Big City. It's been a while for me. Last time I was in New York I demonstrated an incompetence so startling on those rowboats in Central Park that small children pointed and guffawed. And I do not use that word lightly.

Monday, June 26, 2006

There have been times when I've bemoaned evolution. The day I came back from the dentist with two less teeth, a mouthful of gauze, loopy on pain meds for instance. Or when I've lost my glasses and aimlessly ram my shin into Zach's kick drum in some hotel which smelled not so vaguely of old people, cigarettes, and turned milk. But then, on the other hand, there are fireflies. See, we don't have these in California. We have mosquitos and horseflies and other varieties of uninteresting insect life, but nothing so cool as a beetle with a glowing ass. Wikipedia tells me that fireflies taste hideous and that ancient Chinese folks used to trap them in bottles and use them as lanterns. I can't see how the novelty of these things could possibly wear off. I mean, I said that about pogs too, but this is a whole different story.

So, on our one true day off, with nothing to do and nowhere to go, I forgot to pull the blinds and woke up this morning at the inhuman hour of 8:30. And with no fireflies to stare at with the wonder of some pachouli-smelling acidhead, I've decided to sit down at a real computer with my coffee and Rice Krispies and get back to the post I started last night when I was too blotto to realize "pomerka" wasn't a real word. Those contents have been obliterated for the sake of your sanity and my dignity.

When we last left off, I was thumb-typing in a corporate crab shack during happy hour, marveling at the unfunny attempts at humor on the shirts of unfortunate waiters. "Got Crabs?" said the front. "We do," said the back. And no one laughed. That was in Nashville, where Zach got his tattoo, which, parenthetically, is looking better each day now that the redness and scabs are slowly dissapearing, but I neglected to mention one last exploit in Tennessee. While wandering Broadway in search of food or free country music (we found only the former), we happened upon Sun Records, or a shell of what was once Sun Records, the label which once boasted Johnny Cash, Jerry Lee Lewis, and Nashville's private Jesus, Elvis. What that building is now is a borderline bogus assortment of monogrammed keychains, shoddy acoustic guitars, and cheesy shot glasses, but, if you manage to wander past the aforementioned lameness, there's a booth in the back where you can record songs for $25. Inbetween a girl covering some country song I can't remember and a newlywed belting out an admirable karioke of that Cash song with the line "I shot a man in Reno once; just to watch him die," Peter did a number. We borrowed the soundman's guitar, which was probably sold at Walmart and made by Burmese orphans, but, you know, you can't look a gift horse in the mouth. When everyone else wakes up, I'll figure out a way to share it. I remember it sounding pretty good, but I was hungry and my stomach was eating my brain.

After Nashville, we returned to Cincinnatti but not to Skyline chili, although, admittedly, I was too hard on them when I moaned about the place originally. The chili was actually rather tasty. The problem was, you just can't put chili on spaghetti and cover it with oyster crackers and cheap cheddar cheese. It's just not polite. It's like playing Black Sabbath at your wedding: a good ingredient, but sorely misplaced. Unless, of course, Anton LaVey is presiding. Then, you know: go right ahead.

But I digress. Cincinnatti was, how can I put this...not my personal favorite. I could ennumerate the problems, but that's just bland. I will say an old SF friend, Ali, showed up, which was mysterious, mindblowing, and lovely. She said she enjoyed the show, as did her friends, and that's good enough for me, as she's seen plenty. It's just hard to enjoy yourself when the guitar amp sounds like a swarm of angry bees and the bass amp like microwave popcorn. Ah, well. Screw fidelity. It was fun anyhow.

The other wonderful thing about Cincinnatti was that our Fresno-friends Rademacher actually left the sound guy $20 to buy us each a glass of whiskey and, amazingly enough, the gentleman was nice enough to remember it. It was touching, even if that sounds sappy. I love them Rademachers, even more than I used to. (The moral: I can be bribed).

One long, rainy drive, we were in North Carolina, the Talk's hometown. A few folks who played and watched in Cleveland were there, a town where, as the bass player from the Sammies says "you either like Heavy Metal or Lebron James." I'm not sure if that's true, but it's funny. The venue (the Tremont Music Center) sounded superb and we played out any weird mojo that remained from Cinci, whether real or imagined. It was fun to see the Talk in their element too, especially since I got to see their singer get wedgied, which I hadn't witnessed since I was waiting in line for tetherball in third grade. The wedgie is a lost art. Like the foxtrot. I say we bring it back.

Now, we're relaxing in Dave's Dad's house in North Carolina, trying to ignore the fact that one of their dogs has flatulence that smells like the corpse of a small rodent. We're going to take it easy, play some piano and some banjo and some pool before we do four straight, starting tomorrow night. Then, my own bed. No more spongey/herpes-infected hotel blankets. I'm giddy just thinking about it.

Thursday, June 22, 2006

After watching our men's soccer team both get jobbed and play awfully, thus earning their plane flight home after playing no better than a third rate high school girl's team, I can't help but be a little sad. At this point, I'm rooting for Ghana, who pull the crumpling-bitch routine far less often than, say, Austria or the Czech Republic, despite the fact that Ghana is destined to be mopped up by the juggernaut of soccer supremacy that is Brazil. Ah well: for the next few days, let us join together in love of the outmatched underdog, regardless of the fact we can't pronounce any of their names* and attempt to disremember our team's hatred of cogent strategy and shots on goal.

Let's take a step back in the blog Delorian. It's a short trip though. Just a couple nights. A trip, I admit, that wouldn't be necessary if I'd been slightly less engrossed in the ridiculous, conspiracy-theory, talking dolphin, drug-laden, science-fiction dorkfest I've been enjoying in the back bench of the Whaleship Essex.

So, to St. Louis and the Off Broadway we go, with our friends and countrymen, the Talk. When the show started, the crowd could be euphemistically described as "intimate." The Talk ended up forcing everyone to introduce themselves: there were an abundance of Sarahs. But by the time we went on, the place was cozier, some audience member's monikers were unknown, and everyone in attendance was well on their way to lubricated, next day katzenjammers. We ended up two encores deep into our catalogue, racking our brains to remember the few songs we hadn't yet played. The night ended with hugs and handshakes and a couple who claimed they might drive down to Nashville to see it all over again; didn't happen, but God bless anyway. The thought was endearing.

One crappy hotel, three hundred some-odd miles, and a dinner of suprisingly pleasant Souther sushi later, we got on-stage in Nashville. We played before the Afters, and after no one, as the Talk spent their afternoon at Six Flags, rejoicing in recreational queasiness. The Afters are a Christian rock band, but please, think Collective Soul rather than Creed or Stryper (who, oddly enough, will make another appearance in our sordid tale). Incredibly nice gentlemen, incredibly tight musicians, and, although not my usual cup of tea, I must say I enjoyed their stage show. None of that shoe-gazey yawn vibe and delightfully free of Scott Stapp-ian annoyance: just rock and roll. All the best to them.

(An aside: I found a button in my pocket that said "Satan is Real" and cackled like a lunatic before tucking it back away).

It was an all-ages shindig and those tend to wrap up early. With a day off today to be spent either in our car trundling towards Cincinnatti, where we've already been, or hanging out in historic Nashville, we opted for the latter, so we checked into a Day's Inn, attempted to find some goodbad television, found only copious ads for phone-sex lines, Girls Gone Wild, and DUI lawyers (ahhh, to be part of the latenight market), and passed out fitfully. After watching the aforementioned drubbing of our boys in white, we dined at The Pancake Pantry.

Now, let it be known that I am a self-proclaimed connosoir of all things bread-breakfast, including but not limited to pancakes, french toast, and biscuits and gravy. The Pancake Pantry is definately on the medal podium, along with Salem's OHOP (not, I repeat NOT IHOP) and my dad's delicious homemades. If you make it to Nashville, give them your money. Delicious to the point of titillating.

Ah, but where are we now, you might ask? Well, Dave is cyborgin at Kinko's, but Pete & I are waiting for Zach to get his (and Birdmonster's) first tattoo. Eschewing the designs on hand (large breated women leaning on crosses, a drumset adorned with the maxim "Drummers Rule (exclamation point)", various species of large cats feigning ferocity), Zach fulfilled an year's old desire: a tattoo of Edward Gorey's Doubtful Guest. According to a portly tattooist there, the creature in question looks like the offspring of a wookie and a penguin, which is an apt but also unfair description. The Doubtful Guest is far cooler than that. I mean, it came from the brain of Edward Gorey, a man fond of wandering urban streets in a fur coat and red hightop Cons; in other words, a man of impeccable taste and curious skill. When the bandage/scab era has passed, we'll share.

And yes, I mentioned Stryper's reappearance in this here post. You see, this was a Christian establishment and unabashedly so. They had a Stryper** SHRINE complete with signed merch & drum sticks, next to P.O.D. posters and other, less memorable fellows who rocked for the Lord. In fact, there was a sign on the wall which read "Absolutely No Bad Language." When Zach's ink surgery was done and he came over to show it off, I paid heed to the sign and exclaimed, while giggling:

"That looks fucking amazing!"

They threw holy water in my eyes and they bled.

*there was in fact some guy on the Ghanian team named Pimgpong. Just incredibly awesome. Much better than, say, Tabletonnis. Man. Terrible joke there. I'm hanging my head in shame.

**for those unfamiliar with Stryper, they are the premier 80's Christian metal band who dressed like bumblebees. Seriously. Look it up.

Tuesday, June 20, 2006

You know, I used to think San Francisco was windy. After spending an afternoon getting sand blown into my eyeballs on the lakefront in Chicago, I understand all we've got are light breezes. I can't see how umbrellas would be worth a damn there. They'd all end up doing that insideout, martini-glass thing. Either that or pedestrians fly around like Julie Andrews. I'd like to see that, actually.

So, first off: the Hideout. With all due respect to the Great Scott & the Black Cat, this was by far the best club we've played this tour. Legend has it that, decades ago, some drunkard there asked for his final drink of the evening and the bartendress responded "go ahead; it won't kill you," but, then of course, it did. I realize this might be apocryphal, but, like most mythistory, it's fun to believe. Most of New Orleans is that way: either incredible shit went down there or incredibly creative people made it all up, and I'd rather not know the difference.

The Hideout is definately well-named. It's tucked away on some street I couldn't pronounce and from the exterior, has a secluded cabin vibe going. Not a Texas Chainsaw Massacre seclusion, but a special urban sort of seclusion: everybody's little secret. Taxidermied fish, knotty-pine walls, old stand-up piano in the corner, cramped, floor-rug adorned stage, and a trully great sound system: just a fabulous club. If I lived in Chicago, I'd live at the Hideout.

The crowd for our set was odd; a mishmosh of twenty-somethings, regulars, and my grandfolks and their rather sizeable crew of AARPers. My folks flew out as well, for an uncle's wedding party and fathers day and because, well, they enjoy the monster. It was just the Talk and us (as it will be in St. Louis tonight too) and the show went off smashingly. No weird sound issues (ahem, ahem Cleveland), a hospitable club, family, friends, free Pabst: euphoric shit, my friends.

In no way torn between free beds and skanky hotel rooms, we stayed a couple nights at my grandparents house, which involved all the things grandparents's houses always bring. Namely early dinners, 9 a.m. breakfasts, endearing, rambly stories, pampering, and leaving 12 pounds heavier than when you came. I was two plates of gnocchi away from having jowls.

We spent our day off yesterday at Lake Michigan and I have an oddly shaped sunburn and the sandy underwears to prove it. We did nothing there. We defined sloth. It was great.

Now? Back in the Whaleship Essex, listening to Archers of Loaf, nearing the 100 degree swelterfest which is St. Louis. Pass me some salami.

Monday, June 19, 2006

Sunday, June 18, 2006

I'm sorry, but I can't be inside Cleveland & not sing that Band song. It's like driving through Lodi or going to Carolina in your mind or walking the Champes Elyse, regardless of the fact that you can't spell it. So, look out Cleeeveland /storm is coooooming throough/ and it's running right up on yooo-ooou. Man, that felt good.

Now that I got that out of my system, let's talk about woxy. I first got turned on to this particular radio station by my on-again, off-again misanthropic boss, whose taste in music is rather impeccable, irregardless of his pseudo-disdain for all songs not sung by Neko Case. Zach & I started listening now and again, and he happened to solicit a DJ there (Shivvy, as he's known in ones and zeroes land). Turned out Shivvy had recently received a seond-hand review of some South By show we sweated through and had been meaning to contact us as well. Dominoes fell, and, soon, we'd booked an in-studio doohickey. Sometimes, things just come together oh so nicely.

And you know what? We really enjoyed ourselves. Sometimes, radio spots and interviews can be sterile and weird, but not yesterday. I'd summarize, but you can listen for free right here:

http://woxy.com/music/loungeacts/index.php?id=81

Hopefully that works. I can't work html magic from this sidekick, especially after a breakfast soaked in MSG, which has all my joints tingly and my brain twitching. Ten more bites and I'd be hallucinating. Dave kind of looks like a lizard already. Anyway, listening on woxy should be free. I haven't been at a proper computer to confirm that suspicion though. I think there might be a webcam involved as well, and if there is, look for Mike, the DJ who interviewed us, cutting a rug. If you're playing to a physical audience of one, and he's jigging, everything's a-okay. That's my motto. At least, it is now. Definately a trip highlight thus far. I'd recommend listening on an obsessive basis.

Afterwards, on copious recommendations of wandering locals, we went to Skyline for famous Cincinnatti chili. "Get the 5-way," they demanded. So we went and we did and I learned something that day: don't eat spaghetti with chili, cheddar cheese, and oyster crackers on top. Just don't. Its what they serve in Hell's cafeteria, right next to the cole slaw. And there ain't a Rolaid in sight.

Ok. I know I've been talking about food a lot, but you have to understand something: we drive, we get gas, we eat, we drink, and we play music. Rarely is there time for sight seeing or miniature golf or any of the other trappings of your typical vacation. And the Midwest certainly has a different idea of food than I do. You know that food pyramid? You know how grains are supposed to be on the bottom? I'm not so sure here. Grease forms the base. Vegitables are viewed with suspicious contempt. Fruit is illegal. I'm probably being harsh here. I'm sure there are damn fine things to eat around here and I know this isn't the healthiest way of life, certainly, but usually we've been able to fight off scurvy while on tour. I mean, my gums are receding; I'm thinking about buying a parrot.

Last night, after watchin America get jobbed in the World Cup, after free pizza (see?), we played in a back room of Peabody's in Cleveland with, count 'em, five other bands. There were five in the front room as well. The hallway between the two was cacophanous. I recorded it, in case I'm ever in the FBI and have to flush some lunatic out of his militia bunker in rural Texas. In addition to the Talk, we played with two other bands I really enjoyed. The Sammies, for starters, were fantastic, and have unbelievably endearing North Carolina accents, and put on a quasi-sloppy, very enjoyable set. We're hoping to hook back up with them in the coming months, next time we trundle through this part of the country. Elevator Action finished out the Carolina trifecta: very garage-y, male & female vocalists, catchy, short songs, and tremendously nice folks. We were at the club for (no joke) 8 and a half hours, but they all made worth our while. Bravos are in order, so: bravo all around.

Tonight, we've got Chicago, where I get to see my grandfolks and parents, thus saving me postage on father's day cards. And tomorrow, we have a day off. Maybe we'll go to Wrigley field or Lake Michigan. Or maybe just sleep till three. The possibilities are endless.

Friday, June 16, 2006

Greetings from Ohio, so few letters, so many syllables. We're on our way to an on-air shindig at www.woxy.com, which if you read this by 4 p.m. Eastern time, you should definately listen to. Definately. Definately because it was the radio station Dustin Hoffman babbled about during Rain Man, when Tom Cruise wasn't yet crazy enough to eat placenta, breed centaurs, drink the blood of the innocent, or whatever other weird shit that guy's up to these days. I miss Top Gun Tom.

We had a fitful sleep in Columbus the night before last and woke up in time to catch Trinidad fold to England in the World Cup. In other words, we slept till 1:30. After a bland breakfast, we took care of some equipment needs and visited what I understand is the largest university on the planet, OSU. We spent the afternoon lounging in the sun and bogarting their internet connection like the ferocious dorks we've become. Pete bought Dave a fantastic shirt too: it says "War is not the answer" and has a picture of Allen Iverson on it. Genius. Rather relaxing, really, which, in retrospect, we really needed. Because the show...well, 'twas a weird one.

Let's start by saying most everyone there was fantastically cool. The wonders of the aforementioned internet informed enough people of the show that the little dungeon we played in was fairly full. Hell, we got requests for a song we hadn't played like for months. It was one of those rowdy shows that just, somehow, happen. We had a ball. Of course, there was this one guy...

Look: I'm a pretty accepting guy. Feel free to do whatever it is that makes you happy, whether you want to follow in Tom Cruise's footsteps and breed centaurs, listen exclusively to Lawrence Welk, or even root for the Lakers: fine be me. Just don't be this guy. Don't scream at everyone all night when what comes out your mouth is "This is my life! I roll Black Metal, man. Fuckin BLACK METAAAAL!" Don't tell me how much you shred, then pick up my bass without asking and play it like a 6th grader with down syndrome. Don't, at any cost, act like you are in the cut scenes from Gummo. Please.

But, like I said, he was just one guy. His black metalness wasn't totally overwhelming, just totally flabbergasting. Otherwise, Columbus: thumbs up. You need to export that guy. Do the Russians still keep their Siberian prisons open? That'd be a good place to start.

Wednesday, June 14, 2006

As a Californian, it's impossible to drive through New England without getting tree envy. Yeah, we've got folliage, but most of it is caged in little concrete cubes or imported from...wherever it is palm trees come from. But, you know, I'm sure when they visit San Francisco they get bridge-and-bum-envy, so we're even.

Since we spoke last, we've had a couple shows, but I pulled driving duty today, so I missed my daily thumb-typing habit. I did, however, get intimately acquanted* with the Whaleship Essex. She's a fine vessel, with far more power than Sir Patrick but none of Sir Patrick's style and grace. Patrick Stewart, you might be smelly, leaky, and have interior apolstery the color of rotten cranberries, but goddamn I love you. I'm sorry we have to cheat on you this month. She means nothing to us. Nothing.

Soooo, Washington DC. Our erstwhile tourmates, the Talk, had trailer issues back in Massachusets, so the eight hour drive, for them, was an impossibility. Rachel from Underrated Magazine, who kindly set up our first NYC show, came through in the clutch and found an opener on about three hours notice. His name is Rob. As luck would have it, we'd actually met Rob whilst bullshitting at South By this year, at some back patio booze-lounge. He gifted me a fraction of his band's upcoming CD back then, which got devoured in some merch box or another until I found it last month. And let me tell you something: it's fucking good. He did a solo, acoustic thing for the DCers last night and, well, see my above assessment. The Hard Tomorrows. Damn fine music. I tip my hat to them. And, believe it or not, I'm actually wearing one. It says "My Ex-Wife's Car Is a Broom," and yes, I realize that's the stupidest hat ever, but it was four dollars and hilarious on three hours sleep. It was either that or one that said "Obey the Princess." Actually, come to think of it, perhaps I chose incorrectly.

My, my. We're getting tangential today, aren't we? DC, DC: A goddamn ball. We played a few extra ditties since the Talk were AWOL and gave the tamborine to the best in-crowd tambo-shaker thus far. You think I'm kidding? Let me tell you something: we've been unlucky before. We've given percussion implements to people who struggle with the rhythmical complexities of "We Will Rock You." So, Neil: you kick ass. He even got the stop in the middle of Alabama. And some palm bruises too. At any rate, the Black Cat is gorgeous and rather generous with their free drinks and we just had a damn good time. And on a Tuesday to boot. Any town that gave humanity Fugazi and Dismemberment Plan is alright by me.

The extent of our sightseeing in DC was driving past the home our Pissant in Chief and the Washington Monument, which, and I know this has been said before by many people many times, but it's just a giant stone dong. It's rather undeniable.

After driving through sporadic downpour and trees trees trees, we reached Pittsburgh. And...well, shall we just say it wasn't incredibly well-attended? I've seen more people at a rec soccer game. But who cares, right? We still ended up sweaty and smiling, got a few bucks in gas money, and some free turkey sandwiches I'd rather not talk about ever again.

Since we rarely get any place in time to see anything but the four block radius around where we're playing, and since Pittsburgh was early (and filled with thousands of rabid stalker fans, of course), we've decided to drive to Ohio tonight. Which is what's happening right now. So, fairly unceremoniously, until then...

*there's no way I spelled that right. I do realize that. This here machine is allergic to spellchecker.

Tuesday, June 13, 2006

We're on about four hours of couch sleep right now, but, unlike when we chased Art Brut throughout the bottom half of the country, it's not going to be the normal plot on this trip. Most of our East Coast drives are doable without drive-thru breakfasts, gas station coffee, groggy cackling, and early morning R. Kelly. Part of me will miss that. The sane part won't. Well, even the sane part wants some R. Kelly, but that's it. Promise.

For me, most of the stops on the East Coast will be my first visits to each respective city. I did take a trip back at the turn of the century, but I remember New York and twelve dollar lobster in Maine, but that's about it. I think the family and I traveled around here too, but when you're five years old, you just don't give a shit about the Liberty Bell. Peter's from this whole New English mash of teeny states, which translates into tour guide-y driving moments, old friends, and free floors to sleep on, but for me, and for all intents and purposes, my first trip to Boston was last night. I must say: Bravo.

First off, we played at a funky little club called the Great Scott (a mural on the wall asked "Who's the Boss?" with pictures of Bruce Spingsteen, James Brown, and Tony Danza. The answer, of course: not Tony Danza). Nice, helpful staff in what, apparently no more than a year or two ago, was a testerone soaked frat bar. This might be hearsay, but, at any rate: a kick-ass show. If I may be so pompous. The Bostonians seemed to agree.

Afterwards, we drove an old friend home and departed for Providence to avoid the morning Bechtel-induced traffic nightmares and for an aforementioned free floor to sleep on. Then, this morning, we ate delicious Rhode Island diner-ness and saw one of the most impressively pathetic sights I've ever seen: namely, a bearded dude at the diner counter who'd eaten breakfast while polishing off eight beers. Before 10:30. I imagine by now, he's in jail or on number thirty-eight. There's really no other possibility.

Now, in what we may as well officially christen the Whaleship Essex (where's my smashy champagne bottle?), we're rolling to Washington D.C., that partially slummy, strangely Disneyland-esque place where our country's leaders make important decisions about Freedom Fries, Freedom Onion Soup, and vote on gay marriage every third Tuesday. See you there.

Monday, June 12, 2006

Here's the thing about festivals: too many employees and none of them know what's going on. We spent an hour being shuffled between gates, kiosks, huts, shanties, lean-to's, inflatable armadillos, and security guards with Napolean complexes until finding a couple quality individuals who used their walkie-talkies for a righteous cause: namely, allowing us inside the venue we were playing. BFD was quite the shindig, I must admit: four seperate stages, $40 beers, perfect weather, Anti-Flag, who, cryptically enough, played surrounded by Bud Light ads (but then again, so did we), and a veritble sea of humanity. We stayed mostly by the local stage, getting free shoes (thanks Ted), sour bagels, a rather touching photo album (thanks Sherman clan), and a couple sunburns. After the set, we had to scramble home, being that we had an hour drive and a Super Shuttle waiting to ferry us off to Oakland International. Sleep and relaxation: highly overrated.

Yet, somehow it all worked out and we made it to the airport in time to choke down some Round Table, the undisputed king of shit pizza. I flew to New York via Vegas, Dave through O'Hare, while Zach & Pete had a fancy-pants direct flight. They all missed the degenerate glory that is Las Vegas International. Basically, we're talking rows of slot machines, those depressing glass coffin smoking corals (also filled with video poker, naturally), and an inordinate amount of advertisements for caffienated beers and greasy male strip-joints. My flight was delayed by a good hour and a half, and I must say (and not without pride) that I avoided the slots. My fellow captives were not so lucky: my plane neighbor, who sported a platinum grill and a very deliberately designed shaved head with Oakland's area code above either temple, confessed to losing fifty bucks in the span of a single cigarette. Joke's on you Vegas; I don't even have fifty bucks.

We all arrived the next morning, exuding various levels of jet-lagged loopiness, on three different planes at two different airports, all luggage accounted for, all instruments intact (miraculously enough: the banjo is in a flimsy backpack and ended up "valeted" at the gate, which, in layman's terms, means no one deliberately threw it against anything sharp or jagged).

And then there's issue of the van. We'd planned on renting a trailer and pulling it with Peter's folk's old SUV. Of course, this was before we discovered some moron had rolled their Ford Explorer while towing a trailer & now, for fear of getting re-sued, U-Haul wouldn't rent us one. Of course, they <i>will</i> rent to a Mercury Mountaineer, which is the exact same fucking car, but when it comes to U-Haul, it's best to avoid reason and intelligence and just absorb their arbitrary punishment. Long story not exactly short, we're cruising around in an anonymous E350 we were forced to rent from a shady dude in New York, who, when we asked if he had the van's cuts and bruises on record, said "I know what they are man. Have I ever lied to you?"

We took pictures.

We need a good name for this white, scuffy monstrosity. So far though, nothing's come to mind. Care to take a stab at it? Bueller? Gibson?

So, with our borrowed gear (thanks SpinART) and our rented van, we're off to Boston for the official start of this here the Talk/ Birdmonster East Coast extravaganza. I'll try & maintain this puppy when I'm not driving or brain-dead, which might mean once weekly or once daily. You can never tell. For now, hello East Coast. You talk way faster than me.

Friday, June 09, 2006

So, I've been waiting to put this up for a couple days, so much so that I'd been refreshing a certain blog roughly four thousand times a day, like some demented lab rat. Over at Stereogum, they were nice enough to post a video-project we've been working on with the gentleman & scholar known only as Greg Crane. Plus, our silly yammerings are now elsewhere on the ol' internets. And I got to make fun of Sisqo, which really isn't very nice, but is, in fact, always funny. That's a proven scientific fact. Thankfully, they put Zach's name on it, so when Sisqo's army of died-hair thugs come after us, I'll survive the onslaught. And yes, I just sold our drummer down the river. Sorry, man. You are the strongest among us. If it comes down to a knock-down, drag-out rumble, I'll kick crotches, necks, and knees for you. I'll bite too. And I got sharp teeth.

You know that machine in Princess Bride they hook Carey Elwes up to that sucks years off his life? Yeah. Tomorrow is that machine and we are Buttercup. Buttercupmonster, rather. Point is, without boring you, we're loading into BFD at 9, playing at 2:30, and flying to New York at 8:30 and arriving in the morning at 7. This sounded doable, back when we booked & planned everything, but now the logistics are wagging their fingers at us. I'm going to make sure I shave so as not to get the probable-terrorist-pat-down at the security checkpoint. Actually, there's no point. I always get pulled aside. I'll just make sure I swallow the condom of heroin I'm smuggling before I get in line.

We got us some new shirts yesterday too. And maybe some more today. The former are gentlemen's t-shirts, black with gray writing while the latter are indescribably cool ladies shirts with pictures and fancy pants writing; the whole nine. We'll have both with us when we land. And at BFD. So give us your money.

That was blunt. Sorry. But, speaking of tours, Division Day sent us some snap shots of our jaunt a couple months ago. Click here if you want to see them. A majority of the pictures are of those dudes, but, you know, they're fucking adorable. I could just pinch their little cheeks, I could. There's also a bunch from an outdoor show where they stormed the stage during Alabama, an inordiante amount of restuarant pictures, and an uber-mature attempt at writing "dong" with a candle on a long exposure shot. Brings back good, sappy memories. We loves us some D-Day.

I might post a little extra something later today, but for now, I'm going to tie up some before-we-leave loose ends, have a little extra coffee, and try not to stress out like R. Kelly when Rufus is about to open the closet. We'll be keeping the blog updated whilst we travel through the East Coast, so, keep us bookmarked on your battle against Taylorism.

Thursday, June 08, 2006

So it's official: the Democratic Party will be presenting the sacrficial cow that is Phil Angelides at the altar of Kalidor, Governor of California. I think it was a good choice. If you're going to make a meaty sacrifice to our supreme ruler, Westly was just too skinny and probably quite grissly. I mean, if I were Arnold, I'd cook him in a nice lemon & white wine sauce before I ate his face. Just two terrible, terrible cantidates. At least there won't be campaign ads on Jeopardy for a few months. So, that's a plus.

A couple things today, besides aimless, cannibalism-laced, political whine-fests. First, I invite everyone to check out some songs by our soon-to-be tourmates the Talk. I like all four. "Good Songs" indeed.

Second, we boarded up Sir Patrick last night, sticking her in Sebastopol while we're galavanting around the Right Coast. Hopefully, the fresh air and the rest will do her well and, so long as she doesn't have hay fever or wisteria alergies, I'm predicting she comes home rested, happy, and ready to be abused anew. We'll be cheating on her on the East Coast (with a rental of all things, the loose, promiscuous whores of the van kingdom), so if you see her: don't. Say. Anything. She thinks we're going to a wedding for our old van, which is actually dead, stripped, and mashed into a sad little cube somewhere. We keep all your secrets, so, you know, it's time to return the favor.

Tuesday, June 06, 2006

Did I mention that I got my accordion? Of course, to call what I purchased an accordion is like calling an Ibanez a guitar or saying that Arby's serves edible roast beef. In other words, it's a stretch of the highest order. Instead of visiting music stores or going antiquing, I decided to drop into a toy store down the street from the ol' day job, where they had a Hohner child's toy accordion capable of about two chords and no notes that are either sharp or flat. So, basically, I got a squeaky two octave accordion that can yelp along with white-keyed piano ditties. $20 well spent, I'm sure you'll agree. The best part was the duet I did with a six year old when I was buying it. You've never heard percussion genius until you've heard a first grader play drums through plastic packaging. Trust me.

This week, us birdmonsters are trying desperately to avoid forgetting important loose ends before flying to the Right Coast. Personally, I need a haircut & some new pants. But also packing, laundering, and finding Sir Patrick a foster garage are important, if not boring, tasks that need doing. We're good at that last-minute, pseudo-procrastinated rush to action so I have the utmost faith, but, innevitably, I forget something that seems unimportant on paper but ends up being quite necessary. Like deoderant. Sorry plane neighbor. I'll remember this time.

Otherwise: I have a request. I finished the book I was reading & need something new. Maybe somethings, emphasis on the plural. It should be fun, addictive, and long, something that will make me cackle on the plane so that, beyond the lack of deoderant, I'll also be giddy and wild-eyed. In fact, I'm not going to shave either. I see a security point strip search in my future.

And need I remind you that BFD is this Saturday? And that there's an East Coast tour after that? No. But I did.

Monday, June 05, 2006

Having arrived home at 3:30 and at work 5 hours later, you can rest assured that I'm running solely on coffee, a microwaved croissant, and the life-giving majesty of last night's In 'N Out. I feel like an extra in a George Romero movie; feed me brains.

But, it was quite a weekend. Music was had, tetherball was played, sunburns are itching. We played at my old high school's Performing Arts Center, the same place where I saw Fiddler on the Roof in Eleventh Grade (with a Phillipino dude as Tevya, no less---and he RULED) and got some sausagey pasta for dinner, courtesy my Dad. We spent the day at the pool, where I did a lot of flailing off the diving board and loudly mocking the diving form of several different six year olds. The show itself went over well, despite some...unpleasantness with my temporary bass set-up and a complete lack of monitors and alcohol, and, as always, we ended up sweaty and smiling. Plus, I got to see tons of high school bands. And not the ones with flutes & tubas. Ah, memories. When I was that age, I was still trying to learn "The Trooper" by Iron Maiden, so I give these kids credit for the hectic ska, the SoCal punk, and the various incarnations of rock goodness they played. Oh, and I stuck a few stickers on campus and didn't even get sent to the Principal's Office. I'm a rebel, you know.

The next morning, after some biscuits and gravy, we drove up to LA to play a barbeque at Little Radio. Let me tell you what I was expecting: I flimsy wooden stage under a ripping tent in the 100 degree weather with a negligable sound sytem. I couldn't have been more wrong. Little Radio's set up down there is epic, in a Gilgamesh sort of way. Not only do they have a proper venue, but the invaded the neighboring furniture store parking lot with ping pong tables, kiddie pools, plastic pool recliners, squirt guns, hamburgers, and a bouncy castle with foam basketball hoops inside. A memo: when you can spend half your day recklessly flying around a bouncy castle pretending to be athletic, you're having a good day. This is undeniable.

To boot, the venue was inside, so no one got heatstroke. Run Run Run were kind enough to let me plug into their bass amp (thanks again) and everyone was so laid back & barbeque-y that it was tough to leave. When in fact we did, it was half past seven and on an empty stomach, hence the egregiously late arrival this morning. Oh well. Definately my favorite LA show experience thus far. So, thanks again Little Radio folks. I hope you keep that up. And, you know, if you live in LA, I can't think of a better thing to do on a sweltering Sunday, so you should do yourself a favor & go check them out. If it wasn't an eight hour drive, I'd go every weekend. It just doesn't seem cost efficient.

Before my brain continues to atrophe at an exponential rate, I'm going to start trying to do some work, listen to something soothing (Ryan Adams sounds nice, doesn't he?), and drink about eight more cups of terrible office coffee. Just a note: coffee should not be crunchy. But it's crunchy and free and, well, I have my priorities.

Friday, June 02, 2006

It's the Friday before our glorious return to...my highschool, once a place where assistant principles lifted the skirts of girls outside the Winter Dance because the Thong Song was popular and said principle was worried that, you know, girl's underwear might not be up to her puritanical standards. Just one of the many crimes in which we can call Sisqo an accomplice. Now, instead of crapping on common decency, they're throwing concerts & donating the money to charity. So, points for them.

So, we've got a nice long drive this evening, past all those windmills and the rolling greenness, past several In 'N Outs (not all of them of course---you have to stop at at least one), past the traffic wonderland of LA too late to be crapped on, then inland to North Country San Diego. Then, on Sunday, we're doing a barbeque thing in Los Angeles. You know, it just dawned on me we're doing two outdoor shows in one weekend. How bizarre. Then BFD will be outdoors too--so, three in a row...Just hide the hackysacks, please. I'd rather not see any hackysacks.

Oh yes: the bass amp problem is (temporarily) fixed. Roger from Dark Side of the Cop loaned me an extra speaker I can hook up to my broken head, thus making my setup about nine hundred pounds and 500 watts. All to run a busted, 200 dollar bass. How excellent. And also, I didn't win that other accordion. Perhaps it wasn't meant to be. My Zydeco dreams, dashed. My neighbors, ecstatic.

Thursday, June 01, 2006

Last night, without Dave, who is vacationing down in SoCal, us other three birdmonsters gathered in our studio for one of those oh so enjoyable, meandering, long-winded, messy practices which often result in interesting song ideas. Or even songs. Hell, Resurrection Song and Ball of Yarn were written that way. And everything was going nicely, I must say, until...well...until my bass amp exploded.

Alright, "exploded" is certainly an exagerration. It wasn't as if Sly Stallone should've been diving away from it as it engulfed the room in fireballs. But there was that distinctive and depressing noise of a speaker tearing. If you've never heard it before, it sounds like a cat dying, only amplified. Either that or a large, eggshaped flatulent man, amplified. Actually, it's a rather even mix of the two.

Which brings us to an impasse: we have a show in San Diego in two days (see last post) and I'm ampless. I'm thinking about just setting up a microphone and beat-boxing my bass parts. The chords will be tricky of course, but I can get Dave to harmonize with me. Either that or I'm going to find one today. Plans are in the works, and hopefully, our old friends Dark Side of the Cop will come through in the clutch. I have a good feeling about it. We can always car-jack Division Day in LA. I'll bring my ski-mask.

Beyond that, a few folks clued me into Gorilla Vs. Bear today. Why? you might ask. Well, he played us on some radio shindig (which, by the by, thanks) and also, videos with elephants. And who doesn't like Elephants? Really. Too bad he's rooting for the Pistons. Chris: you're blowing it there. They're tired and they're cocky and they're losing tomorrow night. I'll wager...my bass amp. You'll wager your car.

It's a deal.

Ok. I'm really enjoying this book I'm reading so I need to scheme a break from work now. In other news, I am insanely dedicated to my job.